An' he shall lie in fathoms deep,
The star-fish ower his een shall creep.
An' an auld grey wife shall sit an' weep
In the hall o' Monaltrie.
I thrust that ungodly rhyme from me each time that it arose, but in spite of me at last it kept time to the lap of a wave of encroaching sea that beat about my feet.
My silence—my seeming indifference—would seem to have touched the heart that could not be affected by the entreaties of the seaman Horn. At least Risk ceased his taunts at last, and cast a more friendly eye on me.
“I'm saying, Greig,” he cried, “noo that I think o't, your Uncle Andy was no bad hand at makin' a story. Ye've an ill tongue, but I'll thole that—astern, lads, and tak' the purser aboard.”
The seamen set the boat about willingly enough, and she crept in to pick me off the doomed ship.
At that my senses cleared like hill-well water. It was for but a second—praise God! my instincts joyed in my reprieve; my hand never released the cleat by which I steadied myself. I looked at Horn still upon the lower shrouds and saw hope upon his countenance.
“Of course this man comes with me, Captain Risk?” said I.
“Not if he offered a thousand pounds,” cried Risk, “in ye come!” and Murchison clawed at the shrouds with a boat-hook. Horn made to jump among them and, with an oath, the mate thrust at him with the hook as with a spear, striking him under the chin. He fell back upon the deck, bleeding profusely and half insensible.
“You are a foul dog!” I cried to his assailant. “And I'll settle with you for that!”
“Jump, ye fool, ye, jump!” cried Risk impatient.